


portion

by sopronetotakefakes



Series: has soul/moves iron [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, RWBY
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, previous work reworked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopronetotakefakes/pseuds/sopronetotakefakes
Summary: Two girls ascending and descending. Rinse, repeat.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Series: has soul/moves iron [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165793
Kudos: 6





	portion

The famed white sands of Naxos lie smooth as a cloak above the hum of Fate’s inner mechanisms, ever-shifting strands twisting fearfully amongst upon one another in relentless patterns, the slow dance of the inexorable. It imbues gravitas into the bedrock, drapes an onus on the island to mark all that set foot on its shores, by purpose or as driven by destiny, draws threads measured to face the abhorred shears. 

There was water all around us, and we landed for water.

Did the Fates have a hand in the decisions made that day? Even with the sky wiped slate clean, we would choose the same. And why should it matter with the gold streaking through our veins? It mattered because we didn’t know it then, and would matter if we knew even then. Immortality can’t erase mortality in each passing moment, only extend each memory into an unreachable horizon.

_‘Something on your mind?’_

_’Only thoughts. Why?’_

Of the tales and songs about her and I, most agree that she left me stranded on those white-sanded beaches — the image works best when they have me collapsed under moonlight, pale hand outstretched and suitably bereft — that she sailed away under sails black as her supposed heart, enough to drown her father in his grief, clear her path to the throne.

The light brush of a hand against my shoulder, my hand rising unbidden to cover it in a wordless plea.

Stay.

‘ _You seemed far away.’_

_‘I’m right here.’_

_‘I know,’ she said, ‘If our luck holds we’ll be home before the next moon.’_

_‘I keep imagining where to take you first — we’ll have to see my father first, of course, and my sister will be at the docks — but all doors open to me are yours to pass through. With or without me, you’ll only have to say the word.’_

You lose something with each retelling. It isn’t that we cease to exist. All are certain that we did, all the better to shore up their credibility. Poetic flourishes, the mark of the artist as individual, our story a blank page for their Art. Inevitably, the versions that survive are those etched on stone tablets, frozen in frescos, copied, reproduced, and retold through evolving mediums.

A constant is another soul that grows with yours. After your first mortal, all dulls, a grey cast drawn over each dawn, your world darkening until the only light is that emanating from your divine radiance. Ordinary mortal barely a pinprick, their exalted heroes no more than a succession of brief flares.

The fire had died down to glowing embers.

She blazed brighter than anyone before her, warm enough to awaken a long dormant impulse. I wanted nothing more than to reach out, to walk with her through the world for as long as the life pulsed under her skin, match her stride for stride down the years, our paces slowing eventually to a mutual hobble. She would leave me first, and in her last breath I would call her my impatient one, tell her not to walk too fast into that dark night. And I would follow, having first lit the pyre that would flame that shroud wrapped figure into the heavens, if only I could.

Many would take up her mantle, until her legend rang as true as the black sailed ship moored in their harbour. And she did fall, flung from the southernmost point of another island, rock-ribbed where the cliffs rise cruel from the sea.

The moon seemed gentler that night, its light draping the harsh edges of the cliff, softening the jagged crags. Peaceful.

Perhaps I left her there sleeping there, left her on those white-sanded beaches.


End file.
